


Sick

by Tammaiya



Category: X -エックス- | X/1999
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fucked up sexuality, Happy Ending, M/M, self-image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-18
Updated: 2005-01-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 12:05:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8055649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammaiya/pseuds/Tammaiya
Summary: Yuuto's a slut. He's not going to deny it, but it doesn't mean he has to like it.





	Sick

**Author's Note:**

> Non-graphic references to underage sex in the past.

Kanoe was lying on the bed, sprawled out asleep in a self-satisfied tangle of limbs. The sheets were twisted around her legs; the whole room stank of sex.  
  
Yuuto wanted to throw up. Instead, he lit himself a cigarette.  
  
He needed a shower. A hot shower, boiling, hot enough to scald the top layer of skin off. That wouldn't work, though. He'd still be able to smell the faint nauseating scent of sex clinging to his skin days later.  
  
Maybe what he really needed was a lobotomy.  
  
Sometimes, he wanted to blame Kanoe. It was easy enough; she was the one who instigated, she was the one who made him feel like his skin was crawling for days after only two hours.  
  
It was too easy, and he couldn't do it.  
  
Kanoe didn't know any better. Oh, she was a slut; there was no question of that, and anyone could blame her for it if they really chose. Anyone except Yuuto, that is. He hated hypocrisy.  
  
She was the one who instigated, but he was the one who encouraged her. He was the one who flirted, who used his body as an invitation, and he was the one who didn't say no when she took him up on it. He was just as much a slut as she was.  
  
And he was the one with the problem.  
  
He knew he couldn't just blame Kanoe, as much as he wanted to, because she was not the problem. She was a symptom, perhaps, the most recurring, but his invitations weren't limited to Kanoe and she wasn't the only one who ever took him up on them, simply the only one to do so frequently.  
  
She wasn't the only one who made him want to puke, either.  
  
It wasn't her and it wasn't any of the others. It was, as the cliché said: him. They both slept around, and that was how the story went. She slept around because she loved sex and she loved the way it made her feel (loved cherished special).  
  
He didn't really know why he slept around, because all it made him feel was sick.  
  
Sick, sick and dirty like his stomach was roiling and he'd never be clean again. It was messy, all bodily fluids and lukewarm and stickiness that refused to go away when it all turned cold, which made him shudder. He couldn't wash it out of his skin. Worse, he couldn't get it out of his mind.  
  
He hated thinking about it because thinking about it led to doing it led to thinking about it all over again, a vicious cycle of queasiness he could never break. Sex was the way he was geared, playboy looks and loose-limbed sprawl and they always knew he'd be a slut because he looked too easy not to be.   
  
Even when he was younger, he was always going to turn out that way; you could tell the kids that were. They were the early bloomers.  
  
Yuuto knew that when most people said that what they really meant was the fucked up ones.  
  
He was the kind of kid who was obsessed with sex when the other children still believed the stories about the stalk and the cabbage patch babies. Fascinated was the nice term, but it wasn't fascination. Fascination implied mere interest; obsession was a disease.  
  
He wasn't interested. He just couldn't stop thinking about it, which was another thing entirely because he resented it. It was like he was missing a slice of his childhood; the other children had innocence and believed in things that logic dictated were ridiculous. He didn't know how to believe, just like he didn't know how to have a mind that wasn't rotting with an unhealthy obsession.  
  
He was, as he'd always subconsciously known he would be, the kind of boy who lost his virginity at the age of twelve behind the bike shed because he'd been sending out signals without meaning to (asking for it people always said he was asking for it and it turned them on) and then he was too curious-- curious, or compulsive?-- to say no.  
  
Maybe that was the exact moment when he first began to hate sex. He knew it wasn't, though. Not really. That was when he first realised how much he hated sex, felt dirty for days and felt like everyone knew just by looking at him that he was tainted. He'd hated sex before that, since as long as he could remember, since he'd known what it was and couldn't get it out of his mind.  
  
What he couldn't remember, no matter how hard he tried, was the moment when he'd first learned the truth that had come far too early and screwed him up for the rest of his life.  
  
Surely, he thought, surely someone had to have told him at some point. Not his parents; they'd never bothered. By the time it had even occurred to them he was twelve and it was a lot too late, like shutting the barn door when the horse was dead and buried in another state.  
  
Sometimes, in darker moments when he was drunk or smoking desperately to stop himself from hurling his guts up, he wondered: what if no one had told him? He wondered: what if they had showed him? He wondered: what if the bike shed wasn't the first time?  
  
It was always possible. It would explain why he was so messed up, certainly. Maybe he was repressing. On the other hand, maybe he was just looking for something to blame his problems on. It wasn't as if he could think of anyone who would have done that to him; not even he exuded sex when he was five, which was a small measure of comfort to him.  
  
Then again, he'd never examined it too closely. He didn't want to know for sure, and he wasn't even certain which answer would scare him more.  
  
Sex. It dominated every aspect of his life; he couldn't escape from his own obsession, because it was part of him. His body kept sending signals to everyone who so much as looked at him twice, because that was what he was, and then he let them take him up on it when he knew he'd hate himself for it because that was what he did.  
  
What he was, and what he did; he hated the degradation, but Yuuto thought that maybe the reason he could never stop himself from doing it again (like a stupid child who never learned, never learned that a hot stove burns) was because he needed to be appreciated. Needed to be loved, and when people didn't love him at least they loved his body.  
  
Inhale; exhale. Smoke floated hazily across the room. Kanoe was still asleep.  
  
To take a shower, he mused, or to get dressed? Clothes would stick to him disgustingly if he put them straight on. Too much sweat. On the other hand, he hated being naked in the aftermath. Oh, whatever. It wasn't like it really mattered; he'd still feel the phantom hands on his body and legs either way. Maybe it was simply too much effort to get up for a futile gesture.  
  
Yuuto stayed where he was, curled up naked in the chair with the other sheet wrapped around him, and smoked the rest of his cigarette until it was little more than ash burning his hand.  
  
~  
  
The end of the world.  
  
Much like he didn't know why he slept around, Yuuto didn't really know why he was participating in the Apocalypse. It wasn't like any of them got something, any of the Angels; all they got was the dubious satisfaction of blowing things up and the license to be self-righteous about the environment.  
  
He'd dropped cigarette butts in the park on more occasions than he could be bothered to recall. Yuuto definitely wasn't in this for Mother Nature.  
  
He was in this, more than anything else, due to apathy. Destiny could go fuck itself; Kanoe had asked him and he'd done what he always did and ended up sleeping with her for the first time, which probably counted as an agreement of some description. After that it just hadn't seemed worth contradicting her.   
  
Destiny had nothing to do with this. He fucked everything up for himself with no help at all, just like he always did.  
  
Sure, he had powers, and they'd never really done him much good. He couldn't light himself a cigarette with them and it wasn't like he ever wanted to use them to give himself a shower, either. They could have application in the bedroom, he supposed, but that didn't exactly endear them to him. He had no use for them; Kanoe did. If he gave her his body he may as well give her that too.  
  
Yuuto was a whore in every sense of the word. Love me, his actions said, and I'll give you any part of me you want.  
  
So that was why he was here, standing on the telegraph pole simply because he could and staring down at a teenage boy on the rooftops.  
  
Looked like this was his first enemy encounter, then.  
  
Yuuto wasn't paying attention to the conversation, aside from on a superficial level. Instead he was taking mental notes; late teens, he surmised, outgoing personality, Kansai dialect. Had to be a relatively caring person, because otherwise he wouldn't be a Dragon of Heaven.  
  
Arisugawa Sorata: a high schooler who fought with electric charges. Water conducted electricity; Yuuto wondered if that was some kind of sign.  
  
It wasn't until afterwards that Yuuto realised he'd been flirting, which was strange enough that he put it aside in his mind to poke at like a beetle in a glass jar. It was strange because he was always aware, hyper-aware, sending signals that he didn't really have any control over but was always conscious of.  
  
The reason he hadn't noticed, he eventually figured out, was because Sorata hadn't even shown any indication of picking up the signs.  
  
And that, that was what made Yuuto sit up from his apathy and take notice.  
  
That and the pimp suit crack, anyway.  
  
~  
  
Sleeping with the enemy was not an issue.  
  
That was to say, it was not an issue any more than sleeping with anyone else was for Yuuto. He didn't really think his _Kamui_ or the Sakurazukamori could really be bothered with being hypocritical about it.  
  
However, as much as fucking the enemy was not a problem in the conventional way, the enemy didn't seem to agree with this. At least, the enemy did not seem overly receptive of the idea. This was probably more because the enemy was oblivious than because the enemy did not approve of the whole fucking thing, however.  
  
Yuuto wasn't sure whether he should feel insulted by this or if it was a refreshing change that someone didn't see sex plastered all over him. He eventually settled for a mixture of both.  
  
That still left him with his dilemma, however: he was sending signals, and for once they weren't being picked up on. This baffled him. It also made him feel insecure; love me love my body but Sorata didn't even notice.  
  
For once, Yuuto didn't know what he was supposed to do. He hated being ignored, didn't like the feeling that Sorata didn't want him, but it shouldn't really matter, should it? He hated sex. He should have been relieved to be let off the hook of his own reckless stupidity.  
  
Should have been, but Yuuto never claimed to be particularly logical. Instead of relief, he was wondering how precisely he could get Sorata to want him.  
  
Yuuto had always been good at fucking himself over; he could already see this was going to head towards disaster.  
  
And he was going through with it anyway.  
  
~  
  
"Don't raise a Kekkai," Yuuto said, catching Sorata's wrist.  
  
Sorata stared at him uncomprehendingly. It wasn't a violent touch, and it was a bizarre request. "What?"  
  
"Don't," Yuuto repeated patiently. "I don't want to fight."  
  
"You're an Angel," Sorata said tactfully. "I mean, no offence, but… aren't we supposed to fight?"  
  
"I'm not attacking you," Yuuto said calmly, "and I'm not trying to destroy a Kekkai, so not really. You could still attack me, of course."  
  
He wasn't going to.  
  
Instead, he shifted his weight nervously, making only a token effort at pulling his wrist back. "What do you want, Kigai?"  
  
"Yuuto."  
  
Sorata blinked. "Huh?"  
  
"Yuuto," he repeated. "I'd prefer you to call me Yuuto."  
  
Sorata was giving him a very confused look. Yuuto wondered if he was finally beginning to catch a clue; it was hard to tell.  
  
"Yuuto, then," Sorata said slowly, because he was generally very considerate of other people's requests when asked nicely, even if they were Angels. "What do you want?"  
  
That was a loaded question. What did Yuuto want? He couldn't recall an instance where he'd ever really known. Sorata intended it on a superficial level, however, and so on a superficial level Yuuto answered. "To go out for lunch."  
  
Maybe Sorata wasn't getting it after all, because the look he gave Yuuto was incredibly strange. "With me? What are you, crazy?"  
  
Quite possibly.  
  
"Teriyaki," Yuuto offered. "I'll pay."  
  
"Okay," Sorata said after a pause, because his appetite was stronger than his sense.  
  
~  
  
That was the first social encounter they had, followed by a second and then a third until it was almost a regular occurrence. Insults about choice of clothing from both parties eventually died down.  
  
Sorata still didn't seem to be getting the hint.  
  
Of all things, Yuuto was beginning to get frustrated. No, not just frustrated; depressed, in a mildly indignant way. This wasn't how it was meant to go.  
  
The thing was, though, that he didn't even like how it went in the first place. He should have been happy for a change of pace, a switch in plots. Obviously, he wasn't. In fact, for the first time ever, he suspected that maybe he wanted sex instead of just asking for it.  
  
The irony of this was not lost upon him.  
  
Putting aside even the fact that the one person he wanted to sleep with was the only one to not pick up the signals- because, he reasoned, it was altogether possible that that was _why_ he wanted Sorata, an insanely trying catch-22-- it was still ironic. Ironic, because that aforementioned one person was on the opposite side of the Apocalypse and was therefore perfectly likely to try to kill him.  
  
It also had to be the one Seal capable of electrocuting him. Kinky as that was, it didn't particularly cheer him up.  
  
This was so ironic, he felt, that it had to be some kind of _poetic_ irony. One represented by dropping a live wire in a pool of water, perhaps.  
  
It occurred to Yuuto, in a slightly detached way, that he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. Chasing other people was against his nature; he wasn't meant to care one way or the other, and if they wanted him he let them have him. Easy. He'd never considered that maybe the reason he didn't care one way or the other was because they always wanted him; he'd already broken his policy of not chasing after people. He shouldn't keep this up; it was unhealthy. He thought it was, anyway. Perhaps it was normal and he couldn't even recognise that anymore. It wasn't important, though.  
  
He wanted to make Sorata want him. That was the only thing that mattered, and he'd do what he had to do to get it.  
  
The road to Hell was paved with good intentions. Yuuto wondered where the fucked-up intentions led.  
  
~  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
Sorata hadn't asked that question since the first time. Now it was Yuuto's turn.  
  
It apparently took the teenager by surprise. He looked up from toying with his chopsticks and frowned slightly. "What do I want? Geez, what kind of question is that?"  
  
Yuuto shrugged, expression expectant.  
  
"I guess I just want what most people want," Sorata said finally, a little awkward. "To be happy, and for the people I care about to be happy. And for the world not to end, but that's the same thing."  
  
"Mm," Yuuto hummed, just a bit vague.  
  
"Why?" Sorata asked curiously. "Isn't that what you want too?"  
  
Yuuto laughed dryly. "Not really, no."  
  
There was an uncomfortable pause. "Sorry," Sorata said quietly. "I guess I forgot about the whole Angel thing."  
  
"Don't apologise," Yuuto said evenly.  
  
"Well… What do you want, then?"  
  
There was that question again, only this time Sorata meant it that way, wondering what motivated a Dragon of Earth. Quite frankly, Yuuto had no more idea than Sorata did.  
  
He shrugged. "I don't know."  
  
"You don't know?" Sorata echoed. "But… you must have some idea. Don't you? I mean, even just something little. There's nothing you want?"  
  
"If there is, I don't know what it is," Yuuto said, tone implying heavily that further questioning would not be appreciated. He shouldn't have brought the subject up in the first place; of course Sorata would turn it back on him.  
  
"But seriously, everyone wants something. You're an Angel-- doesn't that mean you want the world to end?"  
  
He'd forgotten that Sorata and tact did not go hand and hand. Hell, Sorata probably hadn't even noticed the tone in the first place. As far as Yuuto was concerned, he was notorious for his inability to pick up hints.  
  
Yuuto gritted his teeth. "Not particularly, no. I don't care either way."  
  
Sorata's honestly perplexed expression would have been classic, if Yuuto were in the mood to be amused by it. "Then why are you trying to destroy the world?"  
  
Yuuto shrugged again. "I don't know."  
  
This kind of thing was beyond Sorata's realm of understanding. He stared at Yuuto helplessly, as if willing him to make sense that Sorata could understand. "You have to want something."  
  
Sorata wasn't the only one who was failing to comprehend. Yuuto couldn't understand why Sorata was fixating so much on what Yuuto did or did not want.   
  
"Maybe," he said eventually. "Maybe not. It's getting quite late."  
  
Sorata was relatively straightforward. Yuuto didn't think it was too much to ask that he'd forget about it or let it go the next time they met.  
  
Just like he had forgotten Sorata's stance on tact, however, he had also forgotten one other thing.  
  
Sorata was stubborn.  
  
~  
  
"I don't get you."  
  
"Hm?"  
  
They were at Yuuto's apartment, Sorata lying on the sofa with his arms linked behind his head. It wasn't the first time he'd been there.  
  
"Like I said," Sorata continued. "I don't get you. You're fighting for the end of the world, but you say you don't really care about it. You say there's nothing you want, but everyone wants something. What's the purpose in living otherwise? I just don't get you."  
  
Yuuto longed vaguely for a cigarette. He'd hoped that Sorata would drop the matter once the conversation had ended, but clearly Murphy didn't like him very much. "If you say so."  
  
"Don't you care about anyone, though?" Sorata asked persistently. "Don't you have family you love?"  
  
"I haven't seen my parents in five years," he said flatly. "And my younger sister and I don't talk."  
  
Another one of those things about him Sorata apparently couldn't grasp. He pushed himself up on his elbows, frowning. "But… there's no one special to you? At all?"  
  
Nicotine, Yuuto lamented silently, that's what I really want right now. "No. Is that really so hard for you to understand?"  
  
Sorata rolled off the couch and walked over to stand in front of Yuuto, who was half-leaning against half-sitting on a stool at the bench between the kitchen and living room.  
  
"Yeah," Sorata said. "It really is. And I don't believe you."  
  
Yuuto blinked at him. "You don't _believe_ me?" he asked stupidly. "What do you mean, you don't believe me?"  
  
"What I said," Sorata told him, narrowing his eyes as if trying to find something in Yuuto's face. "It's not like you're completely emotionless-- you've got to care about someone. You can't tell me you don't want to be loved."  
  
A flinch that Yuuto couldn't quite resist; Sorata had hit a little too close to the bone, there, but not the way he'd intended to. Love was sex was somewhere Yuuto didn't want to go, not now or ever.  
  
"I can and I am. I don't know why you're so hung about on it."  
  
"I still don't believe you," Sorata said quietly. He was still looking at Yuuto in a way that was quite unnerving, and Yuuto found he couldn't look away. If Sorata were a book, he wouldn't simply be open; he'd have his emotions splashed out on the cover in technicolour, complete with instructional diagrams. Despite that, though, Yuuto couldn't read the expression on Sorata's face right now.  
  
"What are you looking for?" he asked resignedly. "You're not going to find it."  
  
"I guess you never know until you try," Sorata muttered, which didn't actually make much sense. Before Yuuto could call him on it, however, Sorata's lips were pressed lightly against his in a kiss that was nothing if not chaste.  
  
This wasn't about lust. Yuuto jerked back, completely confused. "What were you…"  
  
"I don't know what I'm doing," Sorata said conversationally, rubbing the back of his neck nervously and not meeting Yuuto's puzzled gaze. "And I still don't get you."  
  
By the time Yuuto had figured out what had happened, Sorata had left the apartment.  
  
It was only then that he realised three things. One: he hadn't slept with anyone in weeks. Two: he hadn't even thought about sex in weeks. Three: he didn't feel like throwing up.  
  
In fact, he felt warm.  
  
~  
  
"Why did you do that?"  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Yuuto sighed impatiently. "You know what I'm talking about."  
  
"Oh." Sorata shifted uncomfortably. "That."  
  
"Yes," Yuuto said dryly. "That. It had nothing to do with lust."  
  
"It wasn't pity," Sorata said defensively, turning ever so faintly pink. "That had nothing to do with it either. I wouldn't… I don't… Ack."  
  
"What did have to do with it, then?"  
  
Sorata shrugged, staring down at the ground. "I don't know. Just. You can't not care about anyone. It's not… it shouldn't be like that."  
  
Yuuto wondered if Sorata was making sense to himself, because he certainly wasn't making any sense to Yuuto. Especially not with that double negative. "Pardon?"  
  
"You have to care about someone," Sorata insisted, voice growing stronger. "And someone should care about you. Just like you should always have something to wish for. Everyone deserves that much."  
  
It occurred to Yuuto, all of a sudden, that he really had never met anyone like this teenager before. He was involved in constant battle and death; how could he be so optimistic? It had to be something about being a monk, Yuuto decided. Maybe something in the food they fed you.  
  
"Besides," Sorata mumbled, "it's not like I _don't_ find you attractive."  
  
The blush deepened. By now it was undeniable. Yuuto lips quirked in wry amusement; Sorata was cute, in some way he couldn't really define.  
  
Sorata's explanation hadn't helped. The only thing left was to try and figure this thing out for himself.  
  
Leaning over and paying no heed to Sorata's startled jerk, Yuuto cupped the teenager's face in his hands and kissed him. It was less chaste than the first kiss had been, Yuuto's lips moving against Sorata's until he coaxed the Seal's mouth open and tongue brushing inside the boy's mouth. Sorata jumped again, making a noise of surprise; his hands flew up to Yuuto's shoulders and bunched in his jacket as if he wasn't exactly sure whether to push him away or pull him closer.  
  
There was a hint of lust this time, but not lust as Yuuto recognised it. It wasn't the sick twisted thing that turned his stomach; it was almost innocent, something uncertain and fluttery like a butterfly cupped in someone's hand.  
  
The warmth was still there.  
  
When Yuuto pulled away, Sorata was staring at him with wide confused eyes. "What was that for?"  
  
"You were right," Yuuto said, apparently at complete random. "There is something I want."  
  
"But… it wouldn't work," Sorata said. He didn't sound overly sure of what he was saying.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"The Apocalypse," Sorata objected lamely. "You're an Angel, and I'm supposed to die for the woman I love, and…"  
  
"Maybe I don't want to be an Angel," Yuuto said thoughtfully. "Do you really want to die for someone else? The best thing you can do for someone is to live for them."  
  
"I guess, but…" Sorata fidgeted. "What about destiny?"  
  
"Destiny," Yuuto said calmly, "can go fuck itself."  
  
Without waiting for a response, he leaned over to kiss Sorata again, pushing the boy gently back into the grass. There were no more protests after that.  
  
And with Sorata, there was no more sickness either.


End file.
